's just like Jaffery. He tells us nothing."

"I think he has told us everything," said I.

"But who and what and whence is this lady?"

"Goodness knows!" said I.

"Therefore, he has told us nothing," retorted Barbara. "My own belief is
that she's a Brazilian."

"But what," asked Adrian, "would a lone Brazilian female be doing in the
Balkans?"

"Looking for a husband, of course," said Barbara.

And like all wise men when staggered by serene feminine asseveration we
bowed our heads and agreed that nothing could be more obvious.

CHAPTER II

Some weeks passed; but we heard no more of Jaffery Chayne. If he had
planted his widow there, in Cettinje, and gone off to Central Africa we
should not have been surprised. On the other hand, he might have walked
in at any minute, just as though he lived round the corner and had
dropped in casually to see us.

In the meantime events had moved rapidly for Adrian. Everybody was
talking about his book; everybody was buying it. The rare phenomenon of
the instantaneous success of a first book by an unknown author was
occurring also in America. Golden opinions were being backed by golden
cash. Adrian continued to draw on his publishers, who, fortunately for
them, had an American house. Anticipating possible alluring proposals
from other publishers, they offered what to him were dazzling and
fantastic terms for his next two novels. He accepted. He went about the
world wearing Fortune like a halo. He achieved sudden fame; fame so
widespread that Mr. Jornicroft heard of it in the city, where he
promoted (and still promotes) companies with monotonous success. The
result was an interview to which Adrian came wisely armed with a note
from his publisher as to sales up to date, and the amazing contract
which he had just signed. He left the house with a father's blessing in
his ears and an affianced bride's kisses on his lips. The wedding was
fixed for September. Adrian declared himself to be the happiest of God's
creatures and spent his days in joy-sodden idleness. His mother, with
tears in her eyes, increased his allowance.

The book that created all this commotion, I frankly admit, held me
spellbound. It deserved the highest encomiums by the most enthusiastic
reviewers. It was one of the most irresistible books I had ever read. It
was a modern high romance of love and pity, of tears iridescent with
laughter, of strong and beautiful though erring souls; it was at once
poignant